This one’s my favorite, I thought at least ten times while looking through
the photos. I finally settled on a picture of her lying on her stomach on the
bed, her legs crossed in the air and her hair down, tucked behind her ear.
She had her chin resting on one of her hands and her lips slightly parted as
she took in the words in front of her on the screen of her e-reader. I
snapped the picture the moment she caught me staring, the exact moment
that a smile, the most beautiful smile, appeared on her face. She looked so
happy to be looking at me in this picture.
Does . . . well, did she always look at me that way?
That day, day five, was when the weight appeared on my chest. A constant
reminder of what I’d done, and most likely lost. I should have called her
that day while staring at her pictures. Did she stare at my pictures? She
only has one to this day, and ironically I found myself wishing I’d have
allowed her to take more. Day five was when I threw my phone against the
wall in hopes of smashing it, but only cracked the screen. Day five was
when I desperately wished she would call me. If she called me, then it
would be okay, everything would be okay. We’d both apologize and I’d go
home. If she was the one to call me, then I wouldn’t feel guilty for coming
back into her life. I wondered if she was feeling the same way I was. Was
every day getting harder for her? Did every second without me make it
harder for her to breathe?
I began to lose my appetite that day. I just wasn’t hungry. I missed her
cooking, even the simple meals that she would make for me. Hell, I missed
watching her eat. I missed every goddamn thing about that infuriating girl
with kind eyes. Day five was when I finally broke down. I cried like a bitch
and didn’t even feel bad about it. I cried and cried. I couldn’t stop. I tried
desperately, but she wouldn’t leave my mind. She wouldn’t leave me alone;
she kept appearing, she kept saying she loved me, and she kept hugging
me, and when I realized it was my imagination, I cried again.
Day six I woke with swollen and bloodshot eyes. I couldn’t believe the way
I’d broken down the previous night. The weight on my chest had
magnified, and I could barely see straight. Why was I such a fuckup? Why
did I continue to treat her like shit? She’s the first person who has ever
been able to see me, inside of me, the real me, and I treated her like shit. I